The act is done,
Straighten that tie,
Just smug enough,
The public’s waiting,
No big X,
Votes are cast and Trump is in.
High on Trump tower he grabs a fistful of hair,
His young, beautiful piece of ass.
In the other he clutches a wad of fifties,
The wind tears them from his loose grip,
They drift through the void,
Fading as they touch the ground.
His palace furrowed with bloody finger trails,
As the less fortunate scramble for his promises.
The eagle on his shoulder fixated on the south,
Claws tear his silk jacket,
He doesn’t notice though,
His fingers trace his ill designs,
Soft folds of orange skin stretch into something resembling a smile.
‘Damn I got bitches,’
A whisper at first
‘Damn I got bitches!’
He gets the crowd riled,
Hot flushes ripple through them:
His characature cakes the earth like an ill fitted toupe.
What is Trump?
Is this really it?
Hold your breath,
Trumperica is coming.